THE 



White Waywode, 

m 



A NEW AND ORIGINAL 



(KDom^dQ^ 30r ^m^t 



In Prologue and Four Acts, 



BY CHAS. W. AUGUSTUS, 



^^^^ 



THE 



White Waywode. 



A NEW AND ORIGINAL 



Comedti^ Br am^ii. 



In Prologue and Four Acts. 



/ 



BY CHAS. W. AUGUSTUS. 



^^^^ 




CHICAGO: 

INGEK80LL. & MAK8H, PKINTEBS. 170 S. CLARK ST. 

1883. 



TS43r 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1883, by Charles W. Au- 
gustus, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, U. C. 



THE WHITE WAYWODE. 



DRAMATIS PEKSON^. 

RuEL Stantley, known as the White Waywode. 

Caryl Morgan, a wealthy young Miner. 

James Foster, his partner. 

Juan Traddles, of Traddles' Mine. 

Paul Hamilton, Cousin to Maud Yale. 

Gabriel Fype, Accomplice of Stantley. 

Robert, Gypsey Physician. 

Grip. Lewis, Ex-Mormon, in love with Mrs. Lisle. 

William Potter, J. P. and Coroner. 

Emmanuel Lee, a Gypse3^ 

Maud Yale, betrothed to Morgan. 

Rose Lee, a Gypsey Flower. 

Mrs. Lisle, House-keeper to Foster. 

Rachel Lee, a Gypsey Fortune-Teller. 

Jennie Foster, daughter to Foster. 

Ninette, servant to Maud Yale. 

scenery. 
Prologue— Traddles' Mine. Act 1— Home of Foster. Act 
2— Gypsey Encampment. Act 3 -Home of Maud Yale. Act 4 
—Home op Foster. 



PROLOGUE. 



TRADDLES' MINE. 

Fi^za of American Kivei' in background. Grave of Ehner Trad- 
dles, R, with cross marked^ "A'. /'., murdered 1849," beneath a 
couple qf trees , with a limb growing b.tween them. Juan Trad- 
dles sleeping on his brother'' s grave. 

Juan. (Arising.) TJie day is breaking and I must leave you, 
brother, alone with these silent compaions, which cast their som- 
bre shadows over your grave. All night long have I rested here, 
sometimes fancying that I hear j'^our voice as the trees bent and 



4 THE WHITE WAYWODE. 

whispered to each other, and dreaming such happy dreams of 
days that can never more retm-n. Gazing upon this little mound 
of earth which hides thee from me, I scarce can realize that thou 
art beneath it, and that I never shall see your face again upon 
this sphere. 

With a bitter heart I came here, vowing vengance against the 
inhuman wretch who so cruelly robbed thee of life, and hoping 
that I might find some clue by which I could fasten his terrible 
crime upon him and avenge thy most untimely death ; but every- 
thing seemed so peaceful and quiet — no sound save the moaning 
of the trees, and the ripple of the waters of yonder silver stream, 
that all thoughts of vengeance stole from me, like shadows cast 
from the mountains before the rising sun. 

Ye emblematic trees! so closely locked in a loving embrace, 
minding me of the tie more strong, which knit our hearts to- 
gether, shelter him well, for I must now leave him to your gentle 
care. Farewell ! Farewell ! Oh, farewell. 

(Moves slo7vly towards L. A crackling sound heard.) 

What was that? Some animal perhaps searching for prey. 
Where can I conceal myself? Ah— those trees. They are easily 
climbed, and among their heavy foliage I may'remain unnoticed. 

(Enters Stantley L. scrutinizing ground closely.) 

Stantley. (Walks over to cross and halts before it.) What's 
this? "E. T., murdered, 1849." Only a grave— and how many 
there are between here and the Missouri. Fools that thought 
they could enrich themselves without toil, and their bones are 
bleaching beneath the burning sun. (Searching again.J Where 
can that knife be? -somebody must have picked it up shortly 
after we had the quarrel which ended so fatally to him. 
What a fool I was to drop it. If it was discovered that it be- 
longed to me, they would make it hot for me. Fortunately they 
thought I had crossed the mountains. Curse him ! if he had 
kept away from that girl of Foster's he might be living yet, but 
it would be safer to cross the cobra's path than step between me 
and my affairs. The White W aywode is an adder, and his sting 
is death ! Lie there and rot! She has been out here and strewed 
flowers over your grave— oh, I heard about it -and much good it 
must have done her and you to water your grave with her tears. 
I'll have her yet as sure as my name is Ruel Stantley, aye surer 
than that, for that's but a gypsey name, and not the one my 



THE WHITE WAYWODE. O 

father bore; they gave me a gypsey training too -and those are 
the fruits; they nursed my youthful passions, and made me what 
I am; as I grew ohler they chose me for their chief— they called 
me the White Waywode, and my word is law among them. 
Enough of this:— leave blabbing to old women. 

(Sounds a wJiistle, and a man appears, R.J 
Do you see any signs of the miners yet? 

Gabriel. I was coming to you wiien I heard the whistle. 
There is a cloud of dust in the distance, I think they are the men 
we are waiting for. 

Stant. All right, I may need you. Get behind that clump 
of bushes near the river. If I blow this whistle once come on 
alone, if twice or more bring some of the rest of the band along 
with you— have them ready. Is everything prepared at the camp 
for a quick move ? 

Gab. Yes chief, I looked to it myself. 

Stant. All right- make haste— look sharp for the signal. 
(Exit Oah.J Ah, here they come riding like the wind. (Exit 
Stant. L.J 

Morgan. This is the spot then, Foster? 

Foster. Yes. 

MoRG. Young Traddles has erected the cross over his broth- 
er's grave I see. Those young men loved each other most affec- 
tionately. I believe the attachment of twins is stronger even 
than that of ordinary brothers, don't you? 

Fos. Yes I think it is, and more especially with these, for I 
heard it said that they came into the world locked in each others 
embrace; their cry was simultaneous. The survivor wouldn't 
part with the mine under any consideration, unless he could 
reserve that part where his brother Jies buried. 

MoRG. So you told me. What do you think of the location? 

Fos. Excellent. I think there is money in it. 

MoRG. If there is gold here, the price w^e paid, five thousand 
dollars, is cheap enough. How far is it to the nearest paying 
claim? 

Fos. Over three miles. 

MoRG. There is a question I want to ask you, Foster. 

Fos. An entire catechism of them, if you wish. 

MoRG. You will not think me obtrusive or inquisitive? 

Fos. Certainly not. 

MoRG. I have your welfare ever at heart. 



6 THE WHITE WAYWODE. 

Fos. I know it partner, else you would not have bought this 
mine, and so generously given me a half-interest, merely to work 
it to our mutual advantage. 

MoRG. Forget that, Foster. Didn't you save my life once in 
the mountains when that old grizzly was on the point of making 
a meal of me. What would have become of that little sweet- 
heart of mine, way down home if he had succeeded in his at- 
tempt. I promised to show you her picture. Here it is ftakiny 
it from 7iis bosom J and you are the only one beside myself that 
have seen it since she gave it to me. That sweet face partner, has 
lightened many a wear}^ days' labor. 

Fos. She is a lovely woman, Caryl, and has a very sweet ex- 
pression of countenance, I pride myself on being a good judge 
of character —there is in the chin much resolution— such persons 
are constant in nature and affections. 

MoRG. You have read her character to a dot. 

Fos. We are wandering, Caryl. What did you intend to ask 
me ? 

MoRG. Yes, yes; does that Gypsey call around to your place 
yet? 

Fos. That fellow they call the White Way wode, Ruel Stantley ? 

MoRG. Yes. 

Fos. He has not visited us for some time. 

MoRG. Didn't he pay some attention to your daughter Jennie ? 

Fos. Yes ; but there is no chance for him there ; Jennie des- 
pises him. 

MoRG. Are you quite sure of this? 

Fos. She has told me so often. 

MoRG. That is sufficient. Take my word for it Foster, he is 
a dangerous man— one of those you wouldn't like to meet alone 
in some secluded place, without a good pistol to lay your hands 
on. Where is he and his band now stopping ? 

Fos. I can't say, they wander about so from place to place. 
Like the children of Ishmael, living in tents, one day here, the 
next no one knows where. It is reported that they have left the 
country for good — crossed the Sierras, and gone to the States. 
I think they expected to find victims and spoils more plentiful 
than they did. They won't work. A little trading in horses on 
the part of the men, and fortune-telling by the women, is all 
they do. If they are gone, the country is well rid of the lazy, 
thieving pack. That same Ruel Stantley had the assurance once 
to ask me for my daughter Jennie's hand in marriage. 



THE WITITK WAYWODP:. ' 

MoEO. Is it possible ? 

Fos. Aye; and muttered somethiiii;,- between his teeth about 
getting even, when I told him he could not have her. You 
know how it is, partner, in a new country like this, one is often 
obliged to treat as equals some, whom in more settled communi- 
ties he would not recognize, much less associate with ; otherwise 
I should never have admitted him into my home. 

MoRG. Yes, and the laws are still very lax, seldom enforced, 
and in many cases treated with contempt, except when Judge 
Lynch presides, then they make it short, sharp and decisive, and 
no man's life is secure. I almost forgot to remind you : you 
promised to tell me about the young man Traddles, who first 
discovered this mine. 

Fos. With pleasure. Let us sit down on this log so. Well, 
about six months ago, Elmer Traddles, the twin brother of Juan, 
of whom we bought our mine, first came to this locality. He 
was quite young, about twenty-one years of age, bright and 
good-natured, and often spoke of his brother, who was then in 
the East, but expected soon to arrive. The young fellow pros- 
pected about considerable, and with much good judgment, se 
lected this piece of ground, and was about to set some men to 
work on it. He often visited at our place, and he and Jennie 
became very good friends. 

MoRG. You interest me, Foster ; then he was the favored one? 

Fos. Yes, I am quite sure he was. 

MoRG. Pardon me for interrupting you— proceed with the 
story. 

Fos. I had observed the young fellow, and was much pleased 
with him. He never drank or smoked, and seemed to shun the 
society of most miners, selecting one or two for companions, 
and bearing himself always in a gentlemanly manner. I should 
have been pleased to see him wedded to Jennie. His career, 
however, was destined to be a very short one. He was murdered 
one night, and his body thrown over yonder cliff. At first we 
thought it was an accidental death, as no wounds could be found 
on the body, but on closer examination it was discovered that 
there were three marks on him— stilletto cuts, barely perceptible, 
as they had closed up when the instrument was withdrawn, and 
the wounds had bled internally. 

MoRG. It was a cruel, cowardly murder. Strange they never 
found the murderer. How did Jennie take it? 

Fos. Very hard. For several days I could not get her to eat 



» THE WHITE WAYWODE. 

a morsel of food ; then I took her to her aunts in 'Frisco, and 
after a while she seemed to forget it, although the slightest allu- 
sion to any of the circumstances would cause her to weep as if 
her heart would break. In the first stages of her grief it was 
pitiful to see her— she could not shed a tear. At last I hit on a 
plan : I brought her here to his grave. The old miners had 
strewed flowers over it, which she noticed, and these tokens of 
affection from his friends made her weep—a few drops at the 
opening, but ending in a perfect shower of grief. That other 
youngster, Juan, looks as much like his brother as one pea does 
to another, and when first I saw him it actually startled me. 
Fortunately he never appeared while Jennie was about, and I 
got him out of the way as soon as possible. When I told him 
of the relationship which had existed between his brother and 
my daughter, he said he should refrain from making any more 
visits, which I suppose was done as much on account of his feel- 
ings for the brother as out of any consideration he had for me 
or mine, although it is said that he is a most estimable young 
man. I have not seen him since we purchased the mine. 

MoiiG. It was on Jennie's account that he sold us the mine, 
I think. We naturally love that which has been dear to those 
loved by us. 

Fos. See this knife ; it was found near the body of young 
Elmer, and must have belonged to the murderer. It is evident- 
ly of foreign manufacture, and has a Japanese inscription on it. 

MoRG. Quite a curiosity, and worth more than its intrinsic 
value. It may be the means too of discovering the murderer. 
(A or If in imitation, of wild turkeys is heard.) What would you 
call that, Foster? 

Fos. The cry of wild turkeys. Take your rifle and pop one 
of them over. 

MoRG. Where yould you locate the sound ? 

Fos. Over near the river. 

MoRG. Keep quiet then until I get a shot at them. 

Fos. All right — move cautiously. If they fly in this direc- 
tion I'll tr3Mny revolver on them- {Morgan moves sloidy to R, 
and fires.) What success? 

MoRG. (Remaining R.J Very poor: I missed them. I am 
afraid if I had to keep a camp in provisions they would all starve 
to death. (Gomes towards Foster who is fumbling with his pis- 
tol.) 

Fos. This pistol seems to be out of order; I can't cock it. 



THE WHITS WAYWODE. 9 

( Weapon is accidently discharged and, Morgan falls to the groiindj 
Great heaven, what have I done? Oh, God! I have shot him; 
I kave killed my best friend! (Rushes to him.) Caryl, Caryl, 
speak to me! 

(Several blasts are sounded on whistles by Stantley within. He 
enters with Gabriel and several others.) 

Stant. a murder has been commited: you are my witnesses. 

Gab. Aye, aye! What shall we do with him? 

Fos. Gentlemen, listen to me; it was an accident. I am an 
innocent man. Attend to my wounded friend: brin.s^- him some 
water. Oh, Caryl ! if you can speak tell them I am not guilty 
of your murder. 

MoRG. (Faintly.) He is innocent. 

Gab. He is not innocent. I saw him shoot the man in cold 
blood. Fetch a rope and we'll string him up. 

Stawt. Not so fast: wait till I give the orders. Stand back 
I say. 

(Stantly walks over to Morgan.^ examines Morgan., whispers to 
Gabriel., then latter blows peculiar blast on whistle.) 

Robert. Here! What do you want? ( Gabriel whispers to 
to him.) 

Stant. Doctor examine this man. Can you save him? 

RoBT. No; the wound is mortal; he can't live till morning. 
The bullet has entered just above the heart. 

Stant. That will do doctor: you may go. {Prepares to leave.) 

Fos. Do not leave the wounded man to suffer, attend to him, 
dress his wound, and I will pay you liberally for it. Oh, Caryl, 
what have I done?— it will drive me mad! 

Stant. Attend to him then doctor; and all but you Gabriel, 
leave. {Exit the rest.) I wish to see you, Foster, alone. I spoke 
to you a short time ago about a little matter, which I want you 
now to reconsider. 

Fos. What was it about? 

Stant. Your memory is short— your daughter. 

Fob. Villian, I see through your game; you cannot have her. 

Stant. Think again before you speak: do I get her or not? 
I have witnesses to prove that you murdered him in cold blood, 
that you murdered young Traddles in cold blood, and have the 
knife with which the deed was done now in your possession. 

Fos. You would swear my life away. 

Stant. Give me the knife. 



10 THE WHITE WAYWODE. 

Fos. I will not. 

Stant. You must. In the presence of these two witnesses, 
give me the knife. 

Fos. I will not. 

Stant. Then I must force you. One blast on this will cause 
those who were here a moment ago to return. Will you give me 
the knife or not. 

Fos. Here it is. Everything conspires to prove me a mur- 
derer, and place me in the power of this inhuman fiend. 

Stant. No pet names Foster, if you please. Think of your 
family: What could your wife and child do to earn a livelihood 
for themselves deprived of your support. The band of which I 
am chief is encamped but a short distance from here. There let 
me take the wounded man, and I will vouch that he shall receive 
the best of care and treatment. You cannot help him, and 
there's little chance of his recovery ; besides the mine is yours 
alone now. 

Fos. Oh, villainous ! 

Stant. If the vigilantes were to find this out, they would 
make short work of you. When the man dies we'll bury him 
quietly, and no one the wiser. Fear not, for we gypseys are as 
secret as death itself. Go home to your family now, and if any- 
one enquires where Morgan is, tell him you left him at the ford, 
and that he promised to meet you at the mine. I'll send some 
of my men to verify your story, and everything '11 come out all 
right. Your friend was but little known in these parts, which 
will make it all the easier for us. 

Fos. I must live for my wife and child's sake. Do what you 
can to save him, and let me know in the morning how he is get- 
ting along. Is there no hope, doctor? 

RoBT. None. {Morgan is here placed on a rude litter.) 

Stant. Go home, Foster, you can do no good here. 

Fos. Try your best to save him Stantley. 

Stant. I told you I would and I'll do it. {Exit all.) 

Trad. ( Coming from tree. ) The murderer of my brother ! 
Was it all a horrible dream? No, no! I am awake. What shall 
I do? Thank heaven they have left me a weapon. ( The pistol 
of Foster.) Brother, for a little time rest easy in thy grave, thy 
cruel murder shall be avenged! For every drop of thy blood 
which he shed, I will wring from him a tainted drop from near- 
est his crime-stained heart. 

Curtain. End of Prologue. 



THE WHITE WAYWODE. 11 



ACT THE FIRST. 

Home of Foster. Foster with dejected look seated at fire-place. 
Door R. and L. 3^/ E*s. <^Large practicable window in flat R. C. 

Fos. The terrible events of that day can never be obliterated 
from my memory; sooner or later the deed must come to light, 
and then — I shudder to think of it — disgrace, ruin, despair- 
perhaps forced to end my existence with a rope about my neck, 
to die like a felon for a crime of which I am guiltless. But who 
will believe me so? None. Were it only for myself how easily 
could I bear all the pain and obloquy they might heap upon me; 
but to think of my poor wife and child — oh, I will think of it no 
more, it maddens me. {Knocks heard.) Come in. {Enter Letois 
R.) 

Lewis. Ah, Foster, did you speak to Mrs. Lisle about that 
matter? 

Fos. Yes, and she seemed agreeable. I congratulate j'ou on 
3'-our success. 

Lew. My success? Why friend Foster you have done it all. 
I am under lasting obligations to you. What will you do now 
for a house -keeper? 

Fos. Wc must try to get along without her. Jennie has so 
far recovered that she will be able to manage very well. 

Lew. I hope so. Why Foster, the first time I saw Mrs. Lisle 
I made up my mind that I'd have her. Said I to myself, Grif., 
she's yours, and here's my prophesy about to be vertified. Are 
you quite certain that I've got the field all to myself, Foster? 

Fos. All to yourself Lewis, provided you step right up with 
a bold front to her and say, take me for better or for worse, es- 
pecially the latter, and you'll not be disappointed. 

Lew. I am glad to hear you talk so cheerfully, Foster, you 
have been so blue of late. 

Fos. Ah, I fear the gypsey may turn up again— then I'm lost. 

Lew. Pshaw! you always look at the dark side. 

Fos. Yes, but he would bring men to testify against me that 
would swear to anything. You are the only soul on this earth 
to whom I have confided this secret, and I want you be very 
careful never to breathe a word to anyone about it. 

Lew. Trust me, certainly not. You wrong me even to har- 
bor the suspicion of such a thing. 



12 THE WHITE WAYWODE. 

Fos. Forgive me, Lewis, I knew you wouldn't, but I find my- 
self growing" more and more aprehensive as the dajs drag on. 
The sight of my own shadow startles me. 

Lew. Indeed I do not think we have anything to fear from 
him now. It is more than six months since anytliing has been 
seen or heard from him. So desperate a character as he was 
must come to an untimely end. 

Fos. I differ with you there, Grif . You know the poet Words- 
worth says, "The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry 
as summer dust, burn to the socket." 

Lew. True, but as the days glide on you ought to be more 
hopeful. 

Fos. Preach hope to him who has not all to lose. Think 
what I have at stake. 

Lew. Yes, but all will yet be well. Quiet now. I hear some 
one coming. See, Foster! what face was that? 

Fos. Where? 

Lew. At the window! I saw a face there! 

Fos. Can it be possible? 

Lew. Yes. Remain till I see. (Goes to window.) All is 
quiet without, except the wind whistling through the pine trees, 
and the lonely cry of the night hawk — an ominous sound. 
(Enter Mrs. Lisle L.) 

Mrs. L. Why are you so quiet? and Mr. Foster how pale you 
look. 

Lew. It's nothing. I was relating an exciting tale to him. 

Fos. You will excuse me, I am not feeling very well; perhaps 
I had better retire. 

Mrs. L. Can I help you sir? 

Fos. No thank you, I can manage very well. Good night. 
{Exit L.) 

Mrs. L. Didn't you know any better Grif. than to relate ex- 
citing tales to him. The doctor says he is in delicate health, and 
a sudden shock may kill him. 

Lew. I beg pardon Mrs. Lisle, but it was not my fault at all. 
You may believe me. 

Mrs. L. Now don't try to gloze it over for I know better. 
Didn't you say so yourself? 

Lew. Yes, but if you only knew. 

Mrs. L. I do know, so that's enough. 

Lew. Well? 

Mrs. L. You see I am right. 



THE WHITE WAYWODE. 13 

Lew. Invariably, Mrs. Lisle. 

Mrs. L. Mr. Foster has informed of your intentions. It is 
strange that you hadn't manhood enough about you to speak 
for yourself. 

Lew. Alas, ray dear Mrs. Lisle, you really must bear with me 
a little, you know how delicate a subject matrimony is. 

Mrs. L. The more reason you should speak for yourself. 
These things are very unsatisfactory at second hand, to say the 
least. 

Lew. Oh forgive me my angel, and if a life of devotion can 
make amends for my past offences then you shall yet be a 
truly happy woman. {Falls on his knees.) 

Mrs. L. Don't fall on your knees in that manner, you will 
ruin your clothes. If you had been an unsophisticated youth, 
I might have thought you didn't know any better, but in one 
who has already been married, and has had experience in such 
matters your conduct is quite unpardonable. By the way, Grif- 
fith, how often have you been married, and what is your previous 
history— what are your antecedents? Who were your parents? 
Strange tales are told about you. I want you to give me a full 
account of yourself, and remember if you tell me as much as one 
fib, I renounce you forevermore. Tell me the truth, the whole 
truth, and nothing but the truth, as the lawyers say. When a 
green girl, I was led into an unhappy alliance, and that's enough 
for a life-time. 

Lew. Let the past be buried, and take me as I am with all 
my imperfections on my head. ' 

Mrs. L, Not much. I must know your history Grif., from 
the time of your birth down to the present day. 

_ Lew. It would fill forty volumes. Besides there is much had 
better remain in darkness, with tlie veil of charity over it. 

Mrs. L. No doubt of that. Shall I know all? 

Lew. Every bit of it if you must, for I love you heart and 
soul and would deny you nothing. But you will positively hate 
me before I get through. Why not take me on trust as I take 
you. Now how would you like it if I were to ask you to tell 
everything, everything mind you, that you had done in your 
life-time. 

Mrs. L. You may know all. The man I married was, and is 
for aught I know to the contrary still a druidcard. We lived a 
liie such as I hope no human beings ever lived before. Day by 
day he promised to correct his habits, but all to no purpose; he 



14 THE WHITE WAYWODE. 

could not let liquor alone and we were both miserable. I bore it 
as long as I could, but when it got so far that he robbed nie of 
what I had by hard toil accumulated— for he had long ceased to 
toil himself —I applied for a divorce and easily obtained it. 

Lew. But Mrs. Lisle, I am no such man as you speak of. 

Mrs. L. Then why do you hesitate? 

Lew. Will you forgive me my faults? 

Mrs. L. That will depend entirely on the nature of those 
faults. 

Lew. They were very serious ones as I am fully aware. 
Well, to begin at the beginning, I was born — 

Mrs. L. We will pass over that this evening. Commence at 
your twenty-first year. 

Lew. I was then living in the county of Jackson, on the 
Western frontier of the State of Missouri, near the Mormon 
Settlement. 

Mrs. L. Ah, near the Mormon Settlement? 

Lew. Yes, ma'am. Do you wish to hear any more. 

Mrs. L. You may continue. 

Lew. Being thrown into daily intercourse with these people, 
and being very young at the time, it may not seem strange to you 
that I imbibed and accepted many of their doctrines. Must I 
go on? 

Mrs. L. Continue, sir, continue. 

Lew. If I did not love you as I do, I could not go on. Well, 
I became in time a good Mormon. 

Mrs. L. Miserable wretch there never existed such a thing as 
a good Mormon. But continue, sir, continue. 

Lew. Hear me through, please. If you keep on at this rate 
I cannot continue; it will be impossible. You must forgive me 
my errors of the past, and judge me by the future. 

Mrs. L. Go on, I must know all. 

Lew. Prepare now for the worst. I, — I — 

Mrs. L. Why do you pause? 

Lew. I married two wives. 

Mrs. L. At one time? 

Lew. At one time— and may heaven forgive me. 

Mrs. L. You said that very fervently, sir. 

Lew. I meant it very fervently, madam. 

Mrs. L. Was your married life unhapp}^? 

Lew. Sincerely, yes. 



THE WHITE WAYWODE. 15 

Mrs. L. Did you leave the Mormon Church of your own 
accord, or are you still a Mormon ? 

Lew. I left it of my own free will. I saw as I grew older 
that the superstructure of Mormonism was reared on a rotten 
foundation. In permitting a plurality of wives the teachings of 
Joseph Smith, like those of his prototype Mohammed, degraded 
women, thus crushing out social equality in the sexes, and tak- 
ing at once a vast retrogade step. Where woman is placed 
beneath the man there can be no such unshackled advancement 
as in the case of Christianity, which admits woman as an equal, 
and therefore is ever progressive, marching onward with a clear 
eye and firm elastic step. 

Mrs. L. Are both women dead? 

Lew. Certainly, my dear, else I could not marry you. My 
lasf wife died ten years ago. 

Mrs. L. Was she one of the two? 

Lew. No, she was another. 

Mrs. L. Had the other two died before you married her? 

Lew. Yes they were both dead. 

Mrs. L. Then you have three wives buried. 

Lew. That is all. 

Mrs. L. All: quite sufficient I should say. 

Lew. No I meant I did not marry any more. 

Mrs. L. a splendid record you have got. 

Lew. Will you forgive me? I have reformed entirely. 

Mrs. L. I must have a little time to consider; your story has 
quite unnerved me. {Enter Stantley quietly, R.) 

Lew. {Being Stantley.) The devil! 

Mrs. L. Sir? 

Lew. Not you my dear — look there! 

Mrs. L. That horrid gypsey! How did you get in? 

Stant. At the door. 

Mrs. L. Well you would oblige us by going out tli^ same way. 

STAiST. I'm sorry to disturb your little tete-a-tete, but busi- 
ness of importance necessitates my staying. I want to see Mr. 
Foster. Call him at once. 

Lew. The devil! 

Stant. Are you still calling on your patron saint. Inform 
Mr. Foster that I wish to see him at once. 

Mrs. L. This insolence is intolerable. Leave the house. Mr. 
Lewis will you show this man the door? 



16 THE AVllITE WAYWODE. 

Lew. You forget my dear that we are in another man's dom- 
icile. Let us call Mr. Foster. 

Mrs. L. Mr. Foster is very ill, and must not be awakened. 
He is asleep. {Enter Foster, L.) 

Fos. Leave me friends to deal with this man alone. 

Lew. All right sir. Come Mrs. Lisle. {Exit Mrs. L. and 
Lewis, L.) 

{While Foster is in front enter accomplice of Stantley, R.) 

Stant. {To Fyfe.) Remain where* I can have you at a mo 
ment's notice— at the window. 

Fyfe. All right, captain. (Exit Fyfe, M.) 

Fos. Now we are alone, what is the nature of your business? 

Stant. Your memory is short as ever. I am a man of few 
words. Your daughter Jennie must become my wife at onci3. 

Fos. You cannot have her; I am resolved. 

Stant. Must I remind you again of that little affair at Trad- 
dies' mine? Wilson, the man you murdered died in my arms. 
Do you want me to reveal that to the authorities here? 

Fos. I defy you. Do your worst. 

Stant. Man, are you insane? You forget your family. 

Fos- I forget nothing. It is better that I should suffer than 
to have my daughter marry such a man as you are. 

Stant. Be careful, I warn you, or you will regret it. I can 
be patient even though I am the Waywode of a tribe in whose 
veins flows the hot blood of the South, which burns and tingles 
at the slightest provocation. 

Fos. It is I whose blood ought to tingle at the insult you have 
offered me. What a villian I must be to link my daughter with 
one she despises— to force her to raary a man whose very pres- 
ence is odious to her. If by sacrificing my poor life I could save 
her from your contaminating touch it will be but a paltry price. 
What I ! - to have her part with virtue, honor, everything, to 
save a life which has long since crossed the meridian, and is even 
now slowly sinking to set forever to purchase a few years of 
miserable existence at such a price?— No, never! Rather would 
I have every member of my body torn from its place, and cast 
piece-meal to famished wolves than to stain her honor with the 
polluting touch of one as degraded as you. 

Stant. Have it as you choose. I will show you to the world 
in your true colors. {Enter Jen7iie Foster, L.) 



THE WHITK WAYWODE. 17 

Jennie. Oh father, what does this man mean by his terrible 
threats? 

Fos. He is a villian! 

Stant. Cling to him while you may for his stay here will be 
short. I charge him with the murder of his partner Morgan, at 
Traddles' mine. 

Jennie. Oh father, is it true? {Enter Juan, R.) 

Juan. It is a lie! You are the murderer of my brother. For 
days and nights I have been on your track, and many times my 
pistol has been aimed at your heart, but I could not kill you, 
much as you deserve it. Now stay and answer to the charge I 
will bring against you, or I'll shoot you as I would a cur. 

Stant. Fire at me if you dare. Just the second your bullet 
enters my body, she will drop dead in her tracks. Ha! ha! j'ou 
do not believe me? I am a magician. The gypseys taught me 
their secret arts. 

Juan. Fool! do you think we are to be frightened by tales of 
that kind. Throw up your hands! 

Stant. You are still incredulous — Look at the window. 

Fos. Spare her! 

Juan. (Turns (uul sees Fyfe at windoio, with rifle pointed ai 
Jennie's heart, drops on his knees.) Spare her — my brother 
loved her, and I cannot see her die. 

Stant. The game is reversed. I thought I could bring you 
to terms. (Ooes to door, R.J Curse you Traddles for this inter- 
ference, but we'll meet again. 

Tableau and Curtain. 



ACT THE SECOND. 

Scenery, mountains in back-ground. Fortune- Teller^ s tent, L. 3 E. 
wide, open in front, and shozving elegantly arranged couch, skin 
on ground etc., colors bright and variegated, gypsey taste. Log 
or stumps of trees for Morgan and Rose, R. i E. Tripod. 

Rachel. Here we are still Emmanuel, buried in the mountains 
and likely to starve to death before we get out of them. I wish 
I was in the States again near our old friends. I want to see 
them so much; but forbye the Waywode is away most of the time, 
and keeps that guiltless man a prisoner, we are obliged to remain 



18 THE WHITE WATWODE. 

in this place, where there is never a stranger from one year's end 
to the other. A nice place for telling fortunes. It seems an age 
since my palm has been crossed by the yellow sonnakai or coin 
of roop. Where is the Waywode? 

Emmanuel. I don't know. 

Rach. He is about some dark business again. Since he's 
been with us everything has gone wrong. The rook! 

Emman. Hush! 

Rack. You know it has, Emmanuel. Why does he keep the 
young man a prisoner? 

Emman. I don't know. Stop with your chatter. If he knew 
this he would kill us both. 

Rach. Aye, so he would if the others would let him. But 
haven't we royal blood in our veins? Aren't we decendants of 
the Lees? 

Emman. Yes but he cares nothing for royal blood, he would 
shed that as quick as any other. If he were a true g3''psey then 
it might make some difference, but you remember he was kid- 
napped from his parents when a little bit of a lad with a sweet 
face and curly hair. Bethink ye Rachel, I was one of the party 
tliat stole him away from his home. It was a wicked deed, and 
bitterly have we paid for it. He has been a curse to the band. 
I can see his mother yet, poor lady— with her suffering face, 
mourning the loss of her little boy, her only child. I tried to 
get your father to give him back but he wouldn't do it. He had 
taken a fancy to the little fellow, and said he would bring him 
up, and make a Waywode of him. You recollect your grandam 
foretold all this, and it has come true: the White Waywode has 
all but ruined us. 

Rach. She prophesied it word for word. Do you know why 
father was so earnest about getting the boy? 

Emman. Yes, he wanted to bring him up to marry our Rose, 
who was then a nursing infant. 

Rach. Rose hates him. 

Emman. I know it, and rejoice in it. He could not have her 
with my consent -if I died for it the next minute. 

Rach. Nor with mine. But hush, we may be overheard. 
Where is Rose now? 

Emman. She went with our prisoner, Morgan, to pick some 
wild flowers for him. 

Rach. Is there no danger of him escaping. 



THE WHITE WAYWODE. 19 

Emman. None. Clement watches him closely, besides he 
gave his word of honor to me that he would not try, and he 
wouldn't break that. 

Rach. Our romee loves the young fellow I believe, and since 
she's been in his company has improved wonderfully. He taught 
her to read and write and behave like a lad}'. Sure she loves 
him or she wouldn't mind him as she does, and I can see a bright 
sparkle in her eyes when she looks in his face. Before he came 
here there never was a book to be seen in our tents, now Rose is 
never without one; and it is a great wonder to me how much the 
girl knows; more than the both of us, Emmanuel. 

Emman. Yes about book-learning she does, but we don't 
have any need of books. The great book of nature is open to 
us. We know the name and habits of every bird and beast 
that roams the wood, every flower that decorates the earth, which 
book folks do not. We know the plants which help us when we 
are sick, and there is not a line on the face or a mark on the 
hand that does not reveal to us some trait of character. What 
do they know of these things? 

Rach. True, but they have books that tell all about it, and 
doctors to help them when they are sick. 

Emman. If you had said doctors to kill them when they are 
sick, it would have been nearer the mark. What do they know 
about horses? Can any of them teach me aught about a horse? 

Rach. No, Emmanuel, that no one can. You were always 
among horses though. Do you remember too the time I was 
sick with the fever — who was it cured me? 

Emman. He was a smart man to speak the truth, although 
he was one of their doctors. They are not all like that. But 
listen to me Rachel; suppose that young fellow Morgan should 
come to us and say. "I want your daughter." Shall we give lier 
to him ? " 

Rach. I would be willing, but the Waywode might not be 
satisfied. 

Emman. He had better not interfere in our doings. 1 hate 
him, for if he hadn't got the good will of your father, I should 
be the Waywode instead of him. 

Rach. Hush! I hear some one coming. (Enter lio.^c. und 
Morgan, L.J 

Rose. We have had such a nice time, father, Caryl and I, 
and I told him mother would tell his fortune. I never could get 



20 , THE WHITE WAYWODE. 

liim to consent to it before, because he does not believe in it. 
Superstition, he calls it. 

Emman. There he is wrong. Rachel show him what you know. 

Rach. Give me your hand. No, the left hand,' sir. What I 
will tell him is of importance to you, so l)ear it in mind. See! 
there is a terrible calamity hanging over your head. 

Rose. Oh mother I am sorry I had you tell him. Will he es- 
cape it? 

Rach. I think so, the line of life is long. If he gets through 
it all right he will live to be over eighty years old. You are an 
honest man, and sprung from honest parents. You have given 
much and received little. You have loved an E. and an M. : M. 
the best. You Avill be married within a year; your wife will be 
dark complexioned. You will be very happy, and will have 
three children lovely and welcome as the flowers in May. Long 
life and good luck to you. Come Emmanuel. 

Emman. Where, Rachel? 

Rach. (Nodding.) I want to see the colt you were telling 
me of. 

Emmamt. All right dear. CExit Emmaauel and Rachel.) 

Rose. Here is a pretty flower, Caryl; will you wear it for me. 

MoRG. Certainly, Rose; you have been so kind to me since 
I have been a prisoner. 

Rose. Do you pine for liberty as much as ever. 

MoRG. Why did you ask me that question. Rose? 

Rose. I should so very much like to have you stay with us 
always. 

MoRG. I am afraid I could never get accustomed to your 
roving ways. My friends too must mourn me for dead, since 
they have not heard from me in so long a time, and I am very 
anxious to see them. What can your Waywode want of me? 
I have offered him all I possessed to be liberated, but he only 
laughed at me. 

Rose. He is a very wicked man, and I don't like him. You 
would not go away from here, and leave me alone, would you, 
Caryl? 

MoRG. How strangely you speak. Rose. I should be 
obliged to leave you, if I were liberated, although it would 
grieve me very much. You have been so good and kind to me 

my best friend, and the one Ixdng who have made this life 
endurable while I have been among you — a prisoner. 



THE WHITE WAYWODE. 21 

Rose. Oh Caryl, I was wrong to speak as I did, but you are 
so different from any man I have ever seen, and I could not help 
loving you. After you leave I shall have no one to teach me, 
no one to speak to me as you have spoken. 

MoKG. Wh}^ my little Rose, there will be your mother and 
you father, and the others, who have all learned to love 3^ou. 
You are young yet, and I did not think could l)e so serious in 
matters of affection. 

Rose. I tried to keep my secret, but could not. I loved you 
too much, and have not the cunning to hide my feelings. I 
would willingly die for you. 

MoRG. And so could I for you, Rose. Oh child, I did not 
wish you to learn the bitter lesson of love from me. If I had but 
thought that our friendship would go this far, I should have 
avoided you, and saved you the pain. But what was I to do ? 
You were like a ray of sunshine, and I could not say " begone." 

Rose. Could you not in time learn to love me? I know that 
I am still young and inexperienced, and I would be so willing 
to have you instruct me. I would give up this wild life for your 
sake, and you would never have to blush for anything I did. Oh 
Caryl, Caryl, speak to me — love me, or my heart will lircak. 
(Sohs and violent (jrief.) 

MoRG. Rose! my little friend! will you not listen to me? I 
cannot see you in this distress. It pains me more than words 
can tell. Your father and your mother will be here presently. 
Come, come, do not weep so. Come, Rose, I wish to tell you 
something. 

Rose. Oh Caryl, Caryl, I love you so much. 

MoRG. Come now, you should not grieve so. Why, my little 
pupil you are scarcely a woman, and yet to be so jiassionate and 
willful; I did not think this of you. 

Rose. I suppose it is because I am a gypsey, but I'll weep no 
more. 

MoRG. Now that's sensible, and I admire you more than 
ever I did, my good little friend. 

Rose. Oh don't speak kind words to me any more; scold me, 
and then I can hate j'^ou. 

MoRG. I don't want you to hate me, but let us be friends. 
Listen to m}'' story, and then you will understand me better than 
you do, and will also think better of me. I wished to keep my 
secret locked in m}'^ own l)osom, but since your pride has been 



:iZ THE WHITE WAYWODE. 

wounded, I have though it better that you shoukl know all. You 
will then know also why I have been so determined to get away 
from here. Before I came to California I formed the acquain- 
tance of a young lady, pure, and good, and steadfast as you are, 
and we loved eacli other with a perfect love. It was arranged 
that after a certain length of time we should be married. If I 
had not fallen into the hands of your chief I should have started 
in less than two weeks, b}^ steamer from San Francisco, to claim 
my bride. She is now waiting for me, I am sure, and suffering 
a world of agony, as I have suffered at not hearing from me in 
all this time. You know all now. Do you blame me? 

Rose. I cannot blame you. I can only love you. Forgive me 
Caryl for annoying you with my foolish tears, and do not cease 
to be my friend hereafter. When you leave us go directly to 
her, and tell her that among the gypseys you had found a wild 
flower, whose heart had grown fragrant with love under your 
care, but when the attention you had bestowed upon it was with- 
drawn, it soon withered and died. Say no more. Some one is 
coming. I hear footsteps. (Enter Stantley, R.J 

Stant. Ah, I see you have not been idle during my absence, 
Morgan. Where are the rest of the band, Rose? 

Rose. Some have gone down to the stream to lish; the rest 
are not far away. 

Stant. I told them they were not to leave the prisoner alone. 

Rose. I have been with him the greater part of the time, and 
Clement also has been watching. 

Stant. As to your watching, I don't give that for it. ( Whis- 
tles. Several come in.) 

Emm AN. What is it? 

Stant. Why haven't my orders been ol)eyed. 

Emman. They were obeyed as far as I know. 

Stant. Did I not say that the prisoner was to be kept under 
constant watch? 

Emman. You did, and so lie has been. 

Stant. You mock me; there was no one with him but Rose. 

Emman. I was not far away; if she had called me I had ap- 
peared instantly. He must be a fool to leave us for he would 
surely starve to death in the mountains, if he tried to escape. 
He also gave me his word of honor that he should not attempt it. 

Stant. His word of honor! Are you so green as that? 

Emman. I don't believe he would break it. 



THE WHTTR AVAYWODE. 23 

Stant. You are a fool. 

Emman. No more of that, Waywodc. I was with the band 
before you were boru, and no one ever dared call me that name. 

Stant. As to you, prisoner, who have been the immediate 
cause of all this, you die within ten minutes. 

MORG. I am prepared. Death comes but once. 

Rose. Oh father he must not die, it will kill me. 

Emman. Be quiet, daughter. 

Rose. (To Stant. J Please, Waywode, spare his life; he has 
been so good and kind to me. 

Stant. Yes, he has been very kind to you, taught you to love 
him, and then casts you off like an old shoe. 

MoRG. You are a coward ! {Stantley starts for him with knife. ) 
I do not fear you, loathsome eavesdropper : a manly trick it 
was in you to play the role of a sneak. ( To Rose.) Spare your 
tears my little friend, they are thrown away on him; his heart is 
harder than flint. 

Stant. I might have saved you but those words have sealed 
your doom— you will be strung up immediately. Bring a rope, 
Gabriel. 

Rose. Oh father save him. Do not let them murder him be- 
fore my eyes; it will surely kill me. 

Emman. Be quiet daughter, I cannot 'help him. 

Rose. Then give me your knife and I will kill him. 

Enman. Who would 3"ou kill — not the Waywode V 

Rose. Yes the Waywode I {Oahriel appears icith rope.) 

Stant. Place it about his neck Gabriel. 

Emman. Stop! such a thing has never been done before - 
It is against our custom. Of what crime is he guilty? 

Stant. I am the judge of that; place the rope about his neck. 

Rose. Oh do not let them kill him, father, he has done so 
much for me. 

Emman. Still, my daughter; be quiet now, I am resolved he 
shall not die. 

Stant. You have just a minute to say your prayers, if you 
want to say any— quick! 

MoRG. I have been prepared for this some time; they are 
ah-eady said. Good b3^e, Emmanuel, and you Rachel and the 
rest. Farewell my little Rose that has been so kind to me. Here 
take this package, and give it to her whose name you will find 
on it. It is my last request, Rose. 



24 THE WHITE WAYWODE. 

Rose. I cannot see you die. {Aside.) If he kills you I will 
kill liim. 

MoRG. Do not speak so Rose. Promise me that you will de- 
liver this package. 

St ANT. Your time is up. — Come. 

Mono. Promise me quick, Rose. 

Rose. I promise Caryl, faithfully to deliver it to her. 

MoKG. A thousand blessings on you. Farewell ! 

Rose. I cannot say farewell. Oh, is there no hope? 

MoiiG. Absolutely none. In a few moments I shall be before 
the thfone of my Maker to answer for all my transgressions. 
See that I am decently buried. ( To Stantley.) Now I am ready. 
Proceed with your hellish work, and make it short as possible. 

Stant. Hoist him up. 

Emman. Death and destruction light on me if I see this in- 
nocent man murdered! It will kill my child! Take that! {Shooifi 
Stantley, ■who falls. Excitement.) 

Tableau and Curtain. 



ACT THE THIRD. 

HOME OF MAUD YALE. 

Elegantly furnished apartment. Fireplace L., table and chairs L. C. 
Pictures of lady and hoy above fireplace. Door back R. C. and 
door 2d E. R. Ninette discovered lighting wax candle in elegant 
old fashioned candlestick. 

Ninette. {Surveying the room.) There! I'll go now and call 
my mistress. Stay! Let me see if there is coal enough in the 
grate. Yes, it's all right. {Discovers letter on floor.) What's this? 
a letter! a love-letter perhaps. Who sent it, I wonder? Can it 
be from that young man who went to California, and was not 
heard from till this morning. It must be. When he comes back, 
if they ever succeed in finding him, won't my mistress be happy! 
A great change came over her when she heard that he was still 
alive, although a prisoner of some horrid gypseys. Poor fellow, 
perhaps they've killed and scalped him before this. I hope not 



THE WHTTB WAYWODE. 25 

tlioiigli for my poor mistress' sake ; she would pine away and die 
I believe, like that story I read some time ago about a pretty mai- 
den, whose name was Echo. She worried and fretted so for a 
young- man named Narcotics, I believe, till there was nothing 
left but her voice; and that's the last thing a woman parts with. 
Why here I've opened the letter. Suppose I were to peep into 
it, she would never know. It is wrong to do so I am sure, and 
it would displease her, for she don't like inquisitive people one 
bit. Oh. I should like to know what is in it! {Partly unfolds 
letter and reads.) Sacramento. Goodness me, it opens with a 
swear word the fir^t thing! I won't read it. Here comes my 
mistress, I hear, the rustle of her dress. What shall I do? 
( Tries to slip it into envelope.) There it won't go in the envelope. 
Pshaw! {Puts letter on table. Enter Maud Yale and Rose.) 

Maud. I have mislaid a letter, Ninette. Have you seen any- 
thing of it? 

NiN. Yes'm, it lay on the floor, and I picked it up and put it 
on the table. 

Maud. Ah, that's a good girl; I am so glad ycu found it. I 
was afraid I had lost it. It was very careless on my part. Why, 
it is not in the envelope. Was it so, Ninette, when you discov- 
ered it? had it slipped out perhaps? 

NiN. Oh, pardon me Miss Yale, I am so sorry. 

Maud. Sorry for what, Ninette? 

NiN. That I started to read it. 

Maud. Started to read it, you say? 

NiN. Yes, although it was just as bad as if I had read it 
through. I merely read the first word, and it sounded so like a 
curse on my curiosity that I could read no farther. Oh, forgive 
me? 

Maud. I am ashamed of you Ninette, that you would permit 
your curiosity so far to master your sense of propriety as to be 
guilty of such a thing. 

NiN. I am very sorry, mistress. Please pardon me, and I will 
never do so again. 

Maud. Well, you have my forgivness this time, Ninette, but 
be careful in the future. In an older person your conduct would 
be quite unpardonable. Servants see and hear quite enough of 
their master's and mistress' affairs without prying into their se- 
crets. Still I do not wise to chide you, I am sure you will never 
do so again, will you ? 



26 THE WHITE WAYWODE. 

NiN. No, believe me. 

Maud. Good. You may retire. {Exit Ninette. Turning to 
Rose.) Rose, how would you like to accompany me to Califor- 
nia. 

Rose. Where? 

Maud. To California. 

Rose. Oh, I should like it ever so much; it would be grand. 

Maud. You must not get too enthusiastic over it. I fear it 
would not be so grand as you imagine. Think of the long, 
tedious journey on the water. 

Rose. I enjoy the water above everything. 

Maud. You are altogether too romantic, Rose. 

Rose. Ah, mistress, I was born near the ocean, on the coast 
of France, as you know. We could plainly hear, from where 
our little cottage stood, the moaning surges of the sea, as the 
waves dashed against the rocks, which lined the shore. I had a 
lover too, who was a sailor. 

Maud. Did you love him very much, or was it merely a child- 
ish affection, that faded as flowers fade in winter? 

Rose. No, I loved him with an undying love, so fixed that I 
might rather pluck out my heart than it— a love which consumed 
everything else in the heat of its intensity a love which made 
me forget mother, father, friends— everything that is near and 
dear td other mortals. I lived but in his glance, and away from 
him I had no existence. 

Maud. Is it possible?— how have I been deceived in you! 

Rose. Deceived in me? 

Maud. Yes, I thought you were meek and gentle, instead of 
that you are a perfect little whirlwind. It pains me to think 
that I unwittingly awoke unpleasant thoughts. Let me see, how 
long have you been with us? 

Rose. I scarce can remember— about a month, I should say, 
but it seems much longer. 

Maud. Much longer? Have you not been well used since you 
have made this your home? I told the servants to treat you with 
consideration, for I knew you were proud and sensitive, and had 
been reared by a gentleman who had met with reverses, as you 
informed me when I gave you the position you now occupy. I 
hope you have always found me considerate. 

Rose. I have no fault to find. You must pardon me. There 
are times when we are not ourselves— when we cannot restrain 



THE WHITE WAYWODE. 27 

our feelings. The thought of that love revived in my bosom, 
and I spoke from the fullness — the wretchedness of my heart. 
You have never loved so, have you? 

Maud. I scarcely know how to answer you. When I enquired 
about your lover I did not think that our conversation would ar- 
rive at its present stage, but since it is so, I may answer that I 
too have loved, and do love, faithfully. Not indeed in the man- 
ner you speak of, for I have not ceased to esteem my father and 
my mother less, nor any of my friends; but my love for them 
has been always the same. Since you will of necessity know 
more about my affairs, as I have chosen you for a companion, 
I may as well tell you that the reason of my going to the Pacific 
coast, is none other than that I expect there to find him, who 
promised to make me his wife, but was prevented from doing so 
some time ago, by unfortunately falling into the hands of a band 
of gypseys, who have held him a prisoner. 

Rose. How did you make this discovery? 

Maud. In a very ordinary manner, which I will explain more 
fuU}^ hereafter. 

Rose. You have interested me very much; will you not tell 
me now? 

Maud. You must excuse me for the present. Rose; I do not 
wish to deny you. Remind me at some other time, and I will 
tell you all about it. It is not often that I make a confidant of 
a person, but somehow I have been drawn towards you, espec- 
ially since I heard that you had been brought up a lady, and had 
met with misfortunes. {Door hell rings.) Hark! Some one is 
coming. 

Rose. Who can it be? 

Maud. My cousin, I think; it is about time he came to weary 
me again with his tedious visits. 

Rose. Ah, then you do not love him? 

Maud. Only as a cousin. 

Rose. Excuse me. {Maud hows. Exit R. 2 E.) 

(Enter Paul Anderson, who hows awkwardly to Rose. Paul 
slightly under influence of, liquor.) 

Paul. Evening, cousin Maud. 
Maud. Good evening, sir. Be seated. 

Paul. Thanks. Cousin I've come to see you on a matter of 
importance — great importance. 



28 THE WHITE WAYWODE. 

Maud. What is itV 

Paul. Can't you guess? 

Maud. I have not the remotest idea. 

Paul. Will you take a stroll with me over to the lake— you 
remember you refused me the time before. 

Maud. I do not care to go. 

Paul. Why not? 

Maud. Because I do not wish to listen to your silly conver- 
sation. 

Paul. Silly conversation! My conversation isn't any sillier 
than anybody else's. Why am I so distasteful to you? Ain't 
my looks and actions the same as those of other men? Can't 
you have a comfortable home with me, and everything a woman 
could reasonably desire? You are not aware of the depth of my 
affection. "Vast as the blue ocean— 

Maud. Oh, nonsense. How often have you told me the same 
thing? 

Paul. Try to bury the hatchet —I mean the past, and throw 
aside the gloomy phantoms which it must recall. 

Maud. And you sir, it would be better for you to discontinue 
yoiir present mode of life. Look at your face in the mirror. 

Paul. What's the matter with my face ? ' 

Maud. I have begged you for your father's sake, for your 
sister's sake, for my sake to abandon your bad habits and drink 
no more. You will become in time a physical and moral wreck 
unless you live more temperately. 

Paul. Then why don't you marry me? 

Maud. We are cousins— let that suffice; an alliance between 
us would entail endless misery on both. If that does not satisf}^ 
you, know also that while you cling to your present habits you 
are unworthy any true woman's love. 

Paul. I don't think if both those obstacles were removed 
that you would have me anyway. No, not if I heaped up this 
room with more valuables than Pizarro was offered by the Inca 
for his liberation. 

Maud. True, cousin, for while Caryl Morgan lives, no other 
man shall call me wife. 

Paul. I can't see what pleasure you can have in clinging to 
that love any longer: -transfer it to something tangible — love 
me, for instance. If he were alive wouldn't he appear? 

Maud. He is alive. 



THE WHITE WAYWODE. 29 

Paul. No: — Where? (Looks around room.) 

Maud. Read this letter. 

Paul. Always my luck. {Aside.) No, you read it. I'll 
listen. 

Maud. It is from the former partner of Mr. Morgan. This 
is what he says. 

Paul. Excuse me a moment: when did you get the letter? 

Maud. This morning. 

Paul. This morning! 

Maud. I should now be on my way to San Francisco, but 
for the fact that no vessel leaves New York for that point till 
next week. 

Paul. You do not mean to leave us, do you? 

Maud. I shall certainly do so. 

Paul. Truth always was stranger than fiction. Caryl Morgan 
alive! Read the letter, cousin. 

Maud. (Heading.) It is with great pleasure that I take this 
means of informing you that Mr. Morgan has again been heard 
from. 

Paul. Again been heard from! Had you received a letter 
prior to this one? 

Maud. No. It must have gone astray in the mails. I would 
give much to know what it contained. But to continue. (Reads.) 
A gypsey has brought us this valuable piece of information. I 
informed you in a previous letter how Mr. Traddles, who had 
sold us the mine, had discovered the place where the gypsey vil- 
lian Stantley, known as the White Waywode, had encamped, 
and why he held Mr. Morgan a prisoner, -also my unfortunate 
connection in the matter. I am happy to state also that my 
daughter has recovered from the shock she received on that ter- 
rible day when the gypsey visited us. We made a thorough search 
of the place indicated by Mr. Traddles, but no trace of the Way- 
wode or any of his band could be found, nor any clue that might 
lead to his discovery till the gypsey, mentioned above, furnished 
us with information which we have reason to believe will result 
in again restoring him to us. The gypsey furthermore says that 
Mr. Morgan has some warm friends among the band, who will 
protect him if necessary. If anything new transpires be assured 
that I will inform you at the earliest possible moment. So fare- 
well for the present. In haste, your obedient servant. James 
Foster. What do you think of it cousin? 



30 THE WHITE WAYWODE. 

Paul. Think of it! I believe with your kind permission I'll 
go over to the lake and get a breath of fresh air— or drown my- 
self. 

Maud. Say good-bye before you go, Paul; it may be some 
time before you see me again. 

Paul. Just my luck. '"Twas ever thus since childhood's 
happy hours, I've seen my fondest hope decay." All those 
beautiful castles which I have constructed are rudely torn down, 
and with grief and blasted expectations, I lie buried beneath the 
ruins. Popocatapetl on Iztaccihuatl, Pelion on Ossa! Farewell. 
You are not going alone, I hope. 

Maud. No, I shall be accompanied by a lady friend. 

Paul. But you ought to have a male protector. {Ring of 
door hell.) 

Maud. I shall probably return with one. 

Paul. Well cousin, even though I have pestered you consider- 
ably you have my best wishes. 

Maud. Good-bye, Paul. 

Paul. Good-bye, cousin Maud. Oh! may I see you once 
more before you go ? 

Maud. Certainly. 

Paul. When do you leave ? 

Maud. The day after to-morrow. 

Paul. I'll be on hand, sober as a judge. Au revoir. 

Maud. Au revoir. (Enter Ninette with card tray. J "Juan 
, Traddles!" — Show the gentleman in at once. What news does 
he being?— to arrive so soon after the letter, too; I cannot under- 
stand it. (Enter Stantley sloidy.) 

Stant. Good evening, Madam. 

Maud. Good evening, sir. You are Mr. Traddles, the gentle- 
man who sold Mr. Morgan the mine? I am very glad to see you 
sir. Pray be seated. When did you arrive in town? I hope 
you are the bearer of good news. 

Stant. I arrived in town this morning, and came here directly 
after finding where you were located. I am the bearer of news 
which I think will interest you -Mr. Morgan lives! 

Maud. So Mr. Foster informed me in the letter. 

Stant. The deuce you say. 

Maud. Sir? 

Stant. So I was about to say when you spoke. 

Maud. How did you first discover that Mr. Morgan was alive? 



THE WHITE WAYWODE. 3] 

Stant. Did not the letter explain that? 

Maud. No, sir; Mr. Foster's tirst letter must have gone astray 
in the mails, as I received but one. 

Stant. That's very strange. 

Maud. I supposed you were searching for Mr. Morgan; so 
the letter states. 

Stant. No. I was taken sick, and had to return. Foster is 
keeping up the search. 

Maud. Why did the gypsey Stantley hold Mr. Morgan a pris- 
oner? 

Stant. Don't you know? 

Maud. I should not have enquired of j'-ou if I had known. 
This is either Western rudeness or something akin to it. (Aside.) 

Stant. A Thousand apologies, mam. We miners are rough, 
as a class, and don't know exactly how to handle ourselves among 
ladies. But I'll tell you why the gypsey held him. Oh! Did 
Foster tell you anything about his shooting Morgan at Traddles' 
mine? 

Maud. Oh no, sir. Was he seriously hurt? 

Stant. No mam, he was not. 

Maud. Why did he shoot Mr. Morgan? 

Stant. It was an accident. Perhaps Foster forgot to men- 
tion the shooting; he was often troubled with a short menjory. 

Maud. What do you think are the chances of success in liber- 
ating Mr. Morgan from the gypseys. 

Stant. Well, its hard to say; let us hope for the best. ( Gazes 
at pictures above fire-place, starts back, and enquires excitedly.) 
Whose pictures are those on the wall? 

Maud. How strangely he acts. (Aside.J The lady's por- 
trait is that of an aunt; the other is her son, my cousin. 

Stant. Your cousin? 

Maud. You seem very much interested. Did you ever see 
either of them before ? 

Stant. I think I have— I'm sure I have. 

Maud. They are both dead. The poor mother lost her child 
— he was stolen from her by a band of gypseys. She died of a 
broken heart. 

Stant. Poor woman. She died of a broken heart for the loss 
of her boy, you say ? 

Maud. Yes, we tried in every way to cheer her up, but she 
pined away and died. 



32 THE WHITE WAYWODE. 

Stant. (Excitedly.) Listen to me. 

Maud. What is the matter, sir? Why do you stare at me so? 

Stant. Listen I say, and do not stir from where you are on 
peril of your life. I am an imposter. I have deceived you. It 
was to avenge myself on your lover, Morgan, that I came here 
to-night. He still lives, and as I told you is in the hands of the 
gypseys. Through him I was first shot, and then expelled from 
the band. I came here to-night to rob, perhaps to murder you, 
but the sight of that face made me change my mind. You were 
kind to her, and I shall be merciful to you. Let me go my way 
peacefully, and do not attempt to call for help. I may be of 
service to you in releasing Morgan from the gypseys. (Moves 
toward the door.) 

Maud. Stay for a moment, stay. Who are you? 

Stant. Ask me no more questions, it is not best. 

Maud. Speak to me— tell me who you are? 

Stant. Youhavebroughtit on yourself then. I was abducted 
by gypseys when a child. They made me their chief. I remem- 
ber the pictures on the wall. That is my portrait— she was my 
mother— and you are my cousin. (Maud sinks into a chair, and 
Rose enters R., Stantley gazes in astonishment.) 

Rose. The Waywode! 

Stant. Rose! 

Curtain. 



ACT THE FOURTH. 

HOME OF FOSTER. 

(Enter Foster,^W) 

Foster. Come in Potter. The groom hasn't arrived yet, and 
we can have a little chat before the ceremony. Why what are 
you going to do with all those books. 

Potter. I thought they might come handy, Foster; you 
know I haven't had much experience in the marrying line; this 
in fact will be my first attempt, and I thought I'd read up in the 
business. Now I might make a mistake you see, as I don't know 
exactly how to perform the ceremony. 

Fos. You'll get along all right, Potter. 



THE WHITE AVAYWODE. 33 

Pot. I hope so; I slioukln't like to make a failure of the first 
time. If it was a shooting or hanging case I'd know just how 
to handle it, but this marryin kinder gits me. Let's see what's 
the young man's name. 

Fos. Juan Traddles. 

Pot. That's a hard name to remember, so I'll chalk it down. 
And your daughter— what's her first name? I always forget. 

Fos. Jennie. 

Pot. Down she goes too. There! By the way what are the 
prospects of joining Grif. Lewis to Mrs. Lisle? Does she still 
hang tire. 

Fos. Yes; he had to tell her that he had been a Mormon, and 
then she refused point blank to marry him. 

Pot. Foster, you must use your inliuence with her. Grif. is 
too good a fellow for her to let slip, so you must tell her, and 
while I've got my hand in I might as well marry two couples as 
one, and pocket the extra fees. 

Fos. You mercenary wretch I Is this all you are thinking of? 

Pot. Not exactly, Foster, but you seem to forget that I earn 
a living that way. 'Tisn't often these things happen here, 'cause 
women are so scarce. I know some chaps that would stick up 
their noses in the East at a heiress— so particular they were once 
— that would come out here and marrj' anything that wore petti- 
coats. But it's with women as it is with money ; you never know 
the value of either 'till you're without it. 

Fos. You are right there. Potter. 

Pot. I Avas going to ask you; couldn't your prospective son- 
in-law find out anything in regard to the man, Morgan, who he 
searched after such a long time? 

Fos. Not a thing. He scoured the country for miles and 
miles, but nothing came of it. The gypsey has either murdered 
him or hid him somewhere where we cannot find him. Oh, Potter, 
I would give all I am worth to see him back again alive. 

Pot. So you would. Now what would you think if I was 
to tell you that I have a clew? 

Fos. A clue! What do you mean? 

Pot. Only this; I've got the gypsey. 

Fos. Impossible! Are you joking? 

Pot. I don't joke, Foster; it's not in my line of business. 
Sit down and keep cool. 

Fos. Where have you got him? 



34 THE WHITE WAYWODE. 

Pot. Outside. Keep coo] ; he didn't fight hard when we 
captured liim. I believe lie intended to give himself up. He 
confessed that he murdered Traddles at the mine, and wanted to 
speak to you, so I brought him around. A great change has 
come over him, and lie says he is willing to die after he sees you. 

Fos. What can he want of me? If Juan sees him he will kill 
him. 

Pot. He is in the custody of two of my men, and disguised 
so that his best friend, if he has any, wouldn't know him. Can 
we arrange a private interview in here? 

Fos. Yes, I will lock the doors, and you can keep watch. 

Pot. All right. I'll signal them to bring him up. ( Goes to 
window and waves his handkerchief.) Here they come. Promise 
me that you will keep cool. 

Fos. I promise. {Enter Stantley with two men, who retire. 
Potter remains at window.) You are here; what do you want of 
me? 

Stant. I thought you might like to know what had become 
of your friend Morgan; that is what brought me here. 

Fos. Will you tell me that? 

Stant. It may be arranged on two conditions. 

Fos. What are they? 

Stant. First, that you use every effort to restore him to his 
friends; and secondly, that no harm is to come to those in whose 
keeping he now remains. It was ihrough me that his life was 
lirst jeopardized, and I am solely responsible for what has since 
happened; that is all. 

Fos. I accept the conditions; but how do I know that you 
are telling the truth? 

Stant. What could be my motive in deceiving you now? 

Fos. What can be your motive in giving me this information? 

Stant. That I will never tell you. Seek not to know it. I 
loved your daughter. It was on her account that I had the quar- 
rel with Traddles. He stepped between us, and -died. 

Fos. His brother is beneath this roof ; if he knew you were 
here he would kill you. 

Stant. Do you think if I feared to die that I would be here. 
You do not know me. 

Fos. I do not know you ! Alas, too well ! Had it not been 
for you and your hellish deeds, I should not now be prematurely 
tottering under the weight of my years. 



THE WHITE WAYWODE. 85 

Stant. It's too late to talk about that. I have here in my 
vest, sewed in the lining, a plan of the location of the gypseys, 
also the names of all the prominent members of our tribe. You 
will find also, an opal ring, in which it is believed the souls of 
one of our dead queens resides, and a written request to have 
them assist you in finding Morgan. There will be no danger and 
little trouble in discovering him, since you know what you know 
now. The ring will make you welcome at any of their camp- 
fires, but you must return it to the person whose name you 
will discover in one of ^he letters, after you have found Morgan. 

Fos. I will return that, and pray heaven that you are sincere 
in your statements. 

Stant. You will find it to ])e true. Come, get the papers, I 
want to go. 

Fos. How can I get them? Tliey are sewed in the lining of 
your vest, you say. 

Stant. Yes, can't you take a knife and cut it open? Potter, 
there, will loan you his for a minute. It won't take but a min- 
ute. 

Pot. Here it is, Foster, 

Fos. (Takes knife and moves slowly toioards Stantley, loho is 
hand cuffed.) On which side? 

Stant. The left. 

Fos. {Dropping knife.) No, I dare not trust myself ; seeing 
your unprotected breast, I might forget myself, and murder you. 
Have you no fear man, that you stand there and ofl;er yourself a 
willing sacrifice for revenge; or are you a fiend incarnate that 
wish me to steep my hands in your blood, and condemn my soul 
to everlasting torture ? 

Stant. Well, what next? Mr. Potter, take these papers. 
You are not so squeamish about it as Mr. Foster. There ! call 
your men, I am ready to go. (Potter opens door and admit the 
m^n, who take out Stantley.) Do not forget your promise, Foster. 

Fos. I shall not. {Exit S.) He is gone, thank heaven. Let 
us go into the next room and see if the young folks are prepared 
yet. We must begin the search for Morgan at once. 

Pot. All right. The books won't be disturbed during our 
absence, will they? 

Fos. No, no, come on! 

Pot. It's my entire library, you know, and I shouldn't like to 



86 THE WHTTE WAYWODE. 

lose 'em. There's two law l)ooks, one aritlimetic, two histories, 
and a ball-room guide. 

Fos. They'll l^c perfectly safe, Potter, Come now. {Ex., R.) 
(Enter Mrs. Lisle and Lewis., L.) 

Lewis. My darling, will you never forgive me? 

Mrs. L. Since you told me you had heen a Mormon. I can 
scarcely bear the sight of you. 

Lew, Unhappy wretch that I am. I am sorry now that I ev- 
er told you anything a])out it till after we were married. 

Mrs. L. Griffith! Griffith! are you mad? 

Lew. Yes, mad at myself for being such a miserable dolt. 
What a fool I was to say anything about it. I might have mar- 
ried you, and nobody the wiser for my past misdeeds. Now I 
get my reward for telling the truth, by you absolutely refusing 
to have me. There's nothing for me to do but to marry Mrs. 
Baxter, over the way. 

Mrs. L. That horrid Valentine ! Grif., you know I hate her ; 
that's why you mention her name. 

Lew. Well, if you don't marry me. I'll marry her, that's all. 
Here's your last chance. Will you have me -yes, or no? 

Mrs. L. I'll save 3'"0u from her, anyhow — yes ! 

Lew, Heaven bless you my dear. Come to these arms ! 
(Enter (thimptly Potter and Foster.) 

Pot. Hello Foster, lets go; another couple to be joined. 
(Exeunt Foster and Potter, R. Enter Morgan, Rachel and Em- 
manuel, L.) 

MoRG. Beg pardon. Is Mr. Foster in? 

Lew. Yes sir, be seated. I will go call him. What is the 
name, please? 

MoRG. Do not mention any, I wish to surpi-ise him. 

Lew. All right, sir. Excuse me a moment. {Goes to R. door 
and Galls.) Mr. Foster! 

Fos. {From within.) Well! 

Lew. Some one here wishes to see you. 

Fos. {From withi7i) I am coming. {Enter R.) Is it possi- 
ble? Caryl, Car}^, is it you, (Eml)race.) 

MoRG. Yes old partner, it is I, Caryl Morgan, come back 
again, thanks to my good friends here. 

Fos. A thousand thanks to you for restoring him to us. I 
have scom-ed the country, partnei' to find you. Where on earth 
have you l»een V 



THE WIIITK WAYWODE. 87 

MOKG. Too long a Story now Foster. Have yon heard Mny- 
thing from my friends in the East? 

Fos. Not a word for six months, although I have since written 
twice. But don't be down-henrtc'd, they were nil well when we 
last hea)(l from them. 

MoR«. (A.nde to Foster. J And Maud— my own Mand— liow 
was she? 

Fos. Fairly well, but very much worried because she had not 
heard from you in so long a time. Oh. partner, I have done you 
a terrible wrong. 

MoRG. No more of that Fostei-, I am gr)ing to leave for San 
Francisco this evening. 

Fos. You mustir't do that, partner. Kemain at le;ist m few 
daj^s, till 3^ou get thoroughly rested. 

MoRG. It is not physical rest I need — the mind, Foster, the 
mind netfds rest. 

Fos. Who are these friends of yours? They look like gypseys. 

MoRG. And so they are. They have been very kiiul to me. 

Fos. Let me welcome them as they deserve. (To fii/pseya.) 
May I beg of you to make this your home while you remain in 
Sacramento. 

Emman. Thank yon, sir, very much, but we must soon be 
going — \\CY, Rachel? 

Racii. Yes, Emmanuel, Mr. Morgan is now with his friends, 
and it remains but for us to say good-b3'e. 

Fos. No, no, I cannot listen to that. My daughter is to be 
married to-day, and I wish you all to see the ceremonj^ per- 
formed, after which we will have a little feast. You must re- 
main, I beg. 

Racii. We thank you, sir, Emmanuel and I, and it would 
please us very much to stay, but our friends are awaiting us. 

Fos. I am very sorry I cannot prevail on you to renin in a lit 
tie while at least. Caryl, you speak to them. 

MoRG. It is no use; they have made up theii" mimls to go. 

Rach. Farewell, Caryl. 

MouG. Farewell, Rachel. 

EM.^rAN. Good-bye to you. 

^loRG. Good bye. God bless you both! 

Rach. Farewell, good people, all. and much joy and good 
fortune remain with you. {Kxit ]l<ichel mid Emintumel, L.) 
(Enter Potter, R.) * 



38 THE WHITE WAYWODE. 

Pot. Eh! What couple was that, left, Foster? 
Fos. Two friends of Mr. Morgan's liere, gypseys. 

Pot. fA.^tonished.J Gypseys! call them back. I can marry 
uypseys as well as anything else. My office as J. P. permits it. 
Call them back at once. 

Fos. They do not want to get married— they have been man 
and wife this many a year. 

Pot. Oh, so. Is this Mr. Morgan the man who was supposed 
to be non est ? 

Fos. Yes, sir. Mr. Morgan, this is Mr. Potter, our Justice of 
Peace and Coroner. 

Pot. Happy to meet you sir. 

MoRG. Same to you. 

Pot. This sir is the day we celebrate ; this day sees two young 
people united in the bonds of matrimony, and (cjlanciiuj at Mrs. 
TAsle and Mr. Lewis) perhaps there may be four young people 
united in the holy bonds of matrimony. The more the merrier. 
How is it Grif? 

Lew. I thi))k you may count us in. What do you sa}^ Mrs. 
Lisle. 

Mrs. L. You may include us. 

Pot. Good for you. Names please, in full. 

Mrs L. Maria Sophia Lisle. 

Pot. Maid or widow? 

Mrs. L. Why do you ask these foolish questions? 

Pot. These are not foolish questions, madam; the law re- 
quires it. 

Mrs. L. Widow. 

Pot. How often? 

Mrs. L. Sir, I will answer no more questions. 

Pot. All right, the law is satisfied. You sir, maid or widow? 

Lew. Neither. 

Pot. I mean bachelor or bigamist? 

Lew. I shan't answer. 

Pot. All right, the ceremony may proceed without those for- 
malities. I will make the twain once without it. In the mean- 
time let me look up the matter. Mr. Foster! 

Fos. Well sir. 

Pot. Will you assist me in searching the records as to the 
legality of uniting two parties who do not answer^all the pre- 
cluded questions. 



THE WlfTTE WAYWODE. 39 

Fos. With pleasure, but I know you may do so. 

Pot. That .settle.s it. As J. P. I will unite you at the proper 
time. CExciDit Mrs. Lisle unci Letcis, R.J tiark! some one is 
comin<;-. {Enter Maud Yale.) 

Fos. A lady. 

Pot. An apparition. If I was only a young man now. 

MoiiG. Is it a dream! Maud, oh, Maud! do you not recog- 
nize me? 

Maud. You Car}^, and alive? (Embrace.) 

MoRG. But where is Rose? You are silent. There are tears 
in ,your eyes. Her parents told me that she would search for 
you, and bring you here. What has happened? 

Maud. She is dead. In crossing the isthmus, she was at 
tacked with the Panama fever, and though wc did everything 
in our power we could not save her. Before she died she told 
me her secret. 

MoRG. Poor child! 

Pot. Come friend, lets precipitate. It's another couple to 
be linked in matrimony. 

Fos. Heaven be praised Potter, this is the happiest moment 
of my life. {Shake hands and exit, II.) 

MoRG. Oh Maud it seems like a delicious dream to see you, 
almost too sweet to be real. Forgive these tears for her sake, 
whom I had learned to love as a sister. What a blow it will be 
to the parents! She was the idol of their hearts- all their plans 
for the future were centered in her as mine are in you. 

Maud. Oh Caryl, I never expected to see you again. 

MoRG. Nor did I you. My slumbers were disturbed by fright- 
ful visions, and often I saw you surrounded by dangers whilst I 
was powerless to aid you. But you never forgot me dearest? 

Maud. Not for a moment. Your image was always upper- 
most in my thoughts. 

MoRG. And shall it always be so. 

Maud. Yes dearest, to the latest hour of my life. 

MoRG. My own Maud, there is to be a double wedding here 
to-day, I understand— everything is prepared. It is in your 
power to make me the happiest of men. 

Maud. You surprise me, Caryl; in what manner? 

MoRG. By becoming my own darling little wife on this day. 

Maud. Why, how could we do that, Caryl ; you see I am 
in travelinu' costume — a black dress, too. 



40 THE WHITE WAYWODE. 

MoRG. Oh, never mind the dress, dearest. Come, say "Yes." 

Maud. Well, then it shall be as you say, "Yes." But are 
we not detaining- our friends? 

{Enter Potter.') 

Pot. Don't mention it, there is plenty of time. 

Mauu. Who is he? He must have been listening. 

MoRG. This is the gentlemen who will tie the Gordian knot 
of matrimony. 

Maud. He neither looks or aets like a clergyman. 

Pot. 1 am not a minister, madam, begging your pardon; sim- 
ply a J. P. 

Maud. AVhieli means - ? 

Pot. Your })ardon again- the abbreviation for Justice of the 
Peace. And madam, although it may not be so elaborate a cer- 
emony as is generally performed east of the Sierras, it is quite 
as binding, you will find. I will call in the other couples now if 
you have made up your minds to be joined with the rest. 

MORO. Yes, sir. Justice, we have, and by all means let us not 
detain you and them in so laudable a work. 

Pot. Young man, I wish I was in your boots. But here they 
come! {Enter Juan and Jennie, and Lewis and Mrs. Lisle.) 
Sashay to the right there, Mr. Traddles— you to the left, Mr. 
Lewis— you to the centre, Mr. Morgan. Mr. Foster, will you 
kindly get back of me, and hold this book during the ceremony, 
while I proceed to make a few remarks to the young people 
about to be united in the holy bonds of matrimony. {Aside to 
Foster.) How am I doing this, Foster? 

Fos. First rate; go ahead. 

Pot. My dear friends, you are about to enter the state of 
connubial bliss. Remember, always, that it takes two to fight. 
A short scrimmage, once in a while, is enough at the very most, 
but for married people to be eternally clawin' over one another 
gets to l)e very tiresome in the end. So, I advise you men to 
love, honor and respect your wives, always. And you, ladies, 
love, honor and protect your husbands always. 

Fos. You have got that reversed. Potter. 

Pot. Oh, 3^es, yes; that's a mistake. I mean, the gentlemen 
love, honor and protect, and ladies love, honor and respect, and 
you will bless the day that I had the honor of joining you in the 
holy bonds of matrimony. {Turning to audience.\ And you, 
ladies and gentlemen, who have kindly honored us with your 
presence during this performance, we hope that you will always 
bear with one another during the trials and vicissitudes of this 
life. 

Curtain. 



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